


Pucker Up, Buttercup!

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also I'm A Tag Whore, Because We All Know What's Up, Blow Job, But It Had To Happen, But Only Being Safe By Tagging It, Dubcon if you squint, Friends to Lovers, Lipstick, M/M, One Shot, Only Because It Started Whilst John Was Asleep, really short, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Jeremy Brett was actually one of I think four actors who has played both Sherlock Holmes AND John Watson during their professional career.</p></blockquote>





	Pucker Up, Buttercup!

 

God, he was tired.

 

He was totally sure he'd been this tired before but couldn't remember when. 

 

Because he was tired.

 

Pulling an all-nighter with Sherlock, with only three hours to shower, shave, nap, and eat before his shift at the surgery was probably best left to those decades his junior but, truthfully, he wouldn't have it any other way. Still, there was nothing so welcome as the sight of his sitting room door. It meant the stairs were almost done torturing him that last bit before he could rest up for the ones that lead up to his room. Collapsing wearily into his chair and reveling in being seated as there were no seats on the tube during rush hour, he was nearly lightheaded from a face-splitting yawn during which he gave a muffled roar denoting his weariness. The familiar pitter-patter of long bare feet made him smile into the darkness behind his lids. The deepness of his flatmate's voice was raised a bit by fervor. Probably an experiment happening.

 

"John! Thank God you're finally home!" Drama queen for sure.

 

"My sentiments exactly. But why're  _you_  glad I'm home, Sherlock? I'm way too tired to be of use-" John had opened his eyes to a looming Sherlock Holmes clad in naught but thin cotton pyjama bottoms the colour of rain clouds. Yeah he was mostly lean muscle rather than just skinny as other clothing might have suggested, yeah his skin was practically porcelain with a light dusting of dark and surprisingly ginger hairs with smatterings of scars that just served to enhance rather than mar, and yeah his raven curls were delightfully tousled,  but that wasn't what made John blink so hard. He was well versed in suppressing crushes on unattainable people and filed the visual away in his Wank Fodder File for later use. No, what made John feel the need to try and clear his vision was the fact that Sherlock's(lush, impossibly shaped)lips were pink. Not the pale rose pink they usually were, but the vibrant pink of one of Harry's old Barbie doll dresses. He seemed to remember Sarah having that shade of- "Sherlock are you... wearing lipstick or have I finally passed out from exhaustion and am currently in hospital having a weird dream based on last night's case?"

 

"The one you saved, John." Fortunately, right into the explanation then.

 

"Jeremy Brett."

 

"Yes, him! Something about the pressure and position of the kiss marks on his body was odd compared to the ones on his unfortunate companion." The only thing that seemed unfortunate about his this companion was that he had been a corpse by the time they got there. Sherlock now had grasped his wrist and pulled on his arm until he sluggishly consented to get to his feet. "Now, I've tried to recreate the results on myself but he is much more similar to you in skin tone and texture." John's brain stalled for a moment but he gave it a little rattle in the form of a head shake and could once again form words. They were moving slowly but at the moment he didn't have the capacity to both have this conversation  _and_  figure out where he was being led.

 

"So... you want me to-"

 

"Serve as a canvas, yes." It wouldn't hurt, it would in fact help further a case which had stagnated. What the hell.

 

"Look, Sherlock, do whatever you want," the glee that lit those fetching glasz orbs was dangerous, " _within reason_. If I can't sleep through it, it's out." John wasn't exactly a sound sleeper but if he was this knackered, he would probably be able to endure light touches and other non-invasive procedures. 

 

Sherlock hadn't released his wrist the entire way back to his bedroom, finally doing so to begin arranging the seemingly thousand tubes of the brand of lipstick used before working up a quick blank chart on his laptop. The crackling fire was working well in conjunction with the radiator making the room comfortably warm.

 

"Alright," Sherlock said thoughtfully with a final keyboard flourish, then began flipping on extra lamps John just noticed. Strip," he commanded casually.

 

"What? Why?" He was, however, already pulling his jumper over his head.

 

"Larger surface to work with." More typing.

 

"Are you calling me fat?" asked the lack of sleep. He crossed his arms in fake petulance, his button up completely undone.

 

"What? No! Of course not." 

 

"Aren't you even going to buy me a drink first? I'm not that easy, you know."

 

"You can have one if you wish. You must be tired. Your humour is more moronic than usual. Off!" John unbuttoned his cuffs and slid his shirt off, revealing the plain white cotton vest beneath. "My God, John. How many layers do you have on?" He disappeared into the hallway and John heard him rummaging around in the kitchen.

 

"It's December," he stated, peeling the vest off and undoing his belt before sitting to groan as he bent in half to work on his shoes. "Besides, you love my jokes!" Sherlock returned with his RAMC mug about half full of whiskey.  "Jesus, Sherlock. You expect me to drink this all in one go?"

 

"Just call upon your alcoholic genes-"

 

"Oi!"

 

"What? Addiction runs in my family as well, in case you've forgotten. I'm one eighth junkie on my father's side and a quarter on my mother's." 

 

"I don't think it actually works that way," John snorted in spite of himself.

 

"I know it doesn't," Sherlock conceded, arranging the lights just so around his bed. "But it's the sort of joke you like to tell because, as when you tell them, you're the only one laughing." John stopped laughing long enough to bestow a warning look on his best friend, but the brief expression Sherlock returned was so serious that it got him started again. The only thing that indicated the scientist's level of actual amusement were his stupid dancing eyes. "Now hurry up and drink that." 

 

"You're not having one?"

 

"No. I need to have a clear head for the sake of the experiment. If you didn't like my earlier analogy, maybe you'd be better served to remember your youth. I'm sure you and and your... sports team mates could really tie one on in your day." That was more acceptable.

 

"Pucker up, buttercup!" John downed only half because of Sherlock's 'Explain Yourself' look complete with nose crinkle right between the eyes. "It's  something we used to say before we took a shot. We called it 'kissing the glass' so we told the glass to... pucker up." Sherlock's expression melted to his resting unreadable mask and John gave up his explanation in favour of bone-weary near hysterical laughter and repeating the toast before finishing his drink. He handed the empty cup back to Sherlock for the sink, almost buzzed already as his stomach was empty. But he was more sleepy than he was hungry and he would eat when he woke up. He had all the next day off from the surgery at least, so he just worked on getting the rest of his clothes off, using that as an additional shield to ask, "Can I leave my pants on?" Sherlock actually had the gall to think about it first.

 

"That's fine. There are a few things I need to sort out before I restart so lay either flat on your back or flat on your stomach. I'm giving you the option though I know you usually sleep on your back but the presence of bright light may have you-"

 

"How do you know how I usually sleep?" The contemplative, yet avoidant silence was too long and John was too tired. "You know what? Never mind."

 

As a last minute thought, he fetched a clean sheet to serve as protection for the about one hundred thousand thread count covers on the posh git's bed and laid on his stomach. It was the most reasonable of choices, shielding his eyes best from all the extra lights. There was no reason to shower yet so all that was actually left for him to do was fall asleep, a feat which he accomplished with little trouble before Sherlock even returned.

 

The dream was a bit(really)odd. He was laying on his stomach in a stark white room that came into view as a combination laboratory and art studio. Even the equipment was white, down to the brushes and gurney on which he lay. The gurney was made up as a snowy bed with deep pillows and one of those memory foam mattress topper things. He saw no one else there, but then he didn't actually look, just luxuriated as a familiar yet unseen hand was making paint impressions with sponges all over his back. Which, his waking mind would have surmised, was essentially what was happening. 

 

It was like some sort of edgy new physical therapy. He felt himself relaxing deeper between each soft press, as if he was being slowly hypnotised. The only out of ordinary touch was the last before The Voice spoke. It was fingertips, expertly molding each crinkle of skin like clay until it formed the exit wound which marred the back of his left shoulder. But then, 'marred' wasn't the proper description in this particular dream. It was constructed for a purpose. The sculptor was attempting to communicate something with its creation that John couldn't quite grasp. It was something like reverence though that wasn't quite it. Whatever it was, it was positive and John felt whole now that it was there.

 

"Turn over so I can finish gathering the data." The Voice, fathomless and soft, was meant to command, but the tone was more a plea than anything else, as if it was vital and only John could help with whatever it was. He was compelled to obey. Dream logic made it a perfectly reasonable occurrence for the whole thing, with the flipping of his body, to morph into what was literally a heavenly dream. He reclined on a cloud, impenetrable blue sky stretched over him in a dome like fashion. Sherlock positively glowed in nothing but linen trousers nearly the same colour as his skin.

 

"Ice Blue," The Voice stated. It was similar to Sherlock's but those cartoonishly shaped lips hadn't moved to speak the words. Rather, they suddenly sported a layer of silver sheened pale blue lipstick. They were deliberately pressed to his left hand, just above the knuckles. 

 

"Writer," Sherlock whispered.

 

"Emerald," said The Voice, and instantly Sherlock wore a deep green colour on his lips. This print went on his wrist. 

 

The process went on for moments and eternities, the contact directly connected to his smile... and his cock. It filled as languidly as the kisses he was receiving. Whichever colour The Voice dictated was the one pushed onto his skin in that distinct shape of Sherlock's opulent mouth. Intermittently, he would whisper something into John's skin, always a single word, always accompanied by the feel of his deft fingertips. The print would glow with a simmering heat, the light waning but the raise in temperature was left behind.

 

"Warrior," was the title of the bullet's entry.

 

"Marksman," his right hand was named.

 

"Doctor," was his heart.

 

His nipples weren't labeled during their formation into taut tawny peaks, but he suspected, going by the curious expression on Sherlock's face, that the soft sounds he made were being catalogued and sorted. Straining the material of his plain white pants, his erection throbbed with every brush of lips or torso. And those eyes, at once green and blue and grey and yellow and black. They never left his face. Even when Sherlock's face was in a position where it was impossible to make eye contact, John still felt them.

 

"Black Cherry," was apparently the final declaration. Sherlock hovered over him, making no contact but so close that heat from his body was beginning to become painful, but in a good way. John felt as if his very skin was straining to close the gap between them as Sherlock remained perfectly still but for the changeable pale eyes taking in every detail of his face closer than he'd ever been. John smelled the lipstick, some sort of mint, and pheromones. The deep, dark red lipstick was applied repeatedly to his face and neck via Sherlock's incredible mouth. The tip of his tongue was involved, tasting as well as marking. He traveled down John's torso in a vaguely zig-zag manner. John had himself out and in his hand, stroking slowly without thinking twice about it.

 

"Oh my God," John said, the first words he spoke. "Oh God Sherlock, yes!" This caused Sherlock to part his lips further so he could stick his tongue out more to begin properly licking John, those singular eyes closing rapturously as he  _tasted_. It was the world's slowest cat bath, the flat of his tongue swiping repeatedly over John's neck, nipples and abdomen. Even the fingers of his free hand was thoroughly tongued. Sherlock had him switch hands so he could give the hand he'd been working his length with the same treatment. Both of them groaned long and profoundly. Sherlock from the enhanced flavour, John from the slight lubrication and using his off hand. Soon, he was prompted carefully to switch again. That mischievous tongue covered every inch of John's flesh, a repeated subterranean purr vibrating the insides of his thigh along the edge of his underwear pleasantly. Sherlock was so close, yet so far as he avoided touching what John was touching. John experimented then, moving himself into the path of Sherlock's tongue and receiving a rewarding swipe. He was elated that Sherlock didn't draw back in horror or surprise. But then in this universe he wouldn't, would he? He must have been teasing earlier because the pause became Sherlock repositioning himself fluidly.

 

Sherlock's eyes met John's once more as he slipped the aching erection between those sinful lips, getting half of it in before applying light suction and a swirling motion that had John alternately swearing and praying, begging and commanding. Sherlock's curls were an unruly forest, remaining untamed by John's fingers but allowing them to pass through however frequently they wished. John tried his best not to pull, controlling his grip with an iron will.

 

"That's gorgeous," John growled. "I love how you look with my cock in your mouth." This had Sherlock moaning, gripping John's hips to encourage him to fuck his face properly by swallowing him to the root then pushing back and forth until John caught on. The surprise of it all, the intense feeling sent John hurtling toward climax and consciousness all at once. He lost a bit of steam just before his eyes cracked open to reality. Try as he might, as astonished as he was at the only slight differences between asleep and awake, Sherlock's head resolutely bobbing up and down on his shaft caused him to be unable to open his eyes past half mast as he was being expertly sucked off. Sherlock's eyes opening and locking on to his as he stopped at the head, moving everything but his skillful tongue whilst maintaining suction at this point didn't so much tip John over the edge as shove him off a rocky cliff, every rock he hit on the way down an exquisitely sharp pulse. Sherlock dutifully swallowed, his own eyes at half mast as if tasting ambrosia whilst John continued to come hard, swearing and apologising.

 

Sherlock slowly pulled off,  one last aftershock splashing a contrasting pale drop over darkness. It began a languorous dribbling before the pink tip of Sherlock's tongue got to it, reconnecting with it's source in a manner that both kept John hard and made it twitch yet again. Sherlock went after it with the flat of his tongue to minimize over stimulation as John just lay there, not exactly whimpering but... Okay he was whimpering. Sherlock just watched him closely as he searched with much difficulty for the tentative regret present earlier, for feeling like a violator or being violated. Nothing. Whatever tiny negativity from before had dissipated with the last of his ejaculate. Just then, John recognized the expression on Sherlock's face. It was the naked hope of a dog or a small child who was asking permission to crawl into your lap. It nearly broke his heart.

 

"Come here," John beckoned, still trying to control his breathing. As expected, Sherlock bounced up into his arms, covering Johns mouth with his own until they were vigorously kissing. John thought for sure Sherlock's tongue had to be fatigued by now but it didn't seem to be the case by the way he was coiling it around and tugging at John's. A slightly less arduous orgasm would have left John with the ability to begin getting hard again even this soon. Pushing his face into John's neck, Sherlock sighed. He sighed deep and long and contentedly, as if he wasn't sporting his own magnificent erection. John slid his hand down the acres of Sherlock's back, lighting on the generous curve of his arse and squeezing gently.

 

"You'll need to wash," Sherlock said, a little groan present in his words as he furtively ground against John's hip. 

 

"I suppose I will. In a bit." 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Jeremy Brett was actually one of I think four actors who has played both Sherlock Holmes AND John Watson during their professional career.


End file.
